One More Miracle
by AStudyinSherlock
Summary: Another post-RBF fiction. In the 18 months since his best friend fell, John Watson has tried to move past the tragedy, but his heart just isn't in it. He's been an utter failure at rebuilding a life without the man who came to mean so much to him, but perhaps there is one more miracle remaining to help him jumpstart his life. Eventual JohnLock.
1. Chapter 1

This is a post-RBF fiction. One more of dozens, I'm sure, but hopefully it will keep you entertained. I have done the best I can to be accurate with my use of British colloquialisms and spelling, but I _am_ a Yank, so please forgive any glaring mistakes.

This will likely turn into a slash fiction at some point which would be a first for me, but it feels right.

I hope that you enjoy and feel compelled to leave constructive and/or positive reviews. Without feedback, there's really no reason to write, after all.

Cheers!

~ Sarah

P.S. Oh, and no, I don't own Sherlock or anything associated with it, though I would happily claim Benedict Cumberbatch or Martin Freeman if they'd be so accommodating. Unlikely, but I'm ever hopeful. Tah for now!

* * *

**"One More Miracle"**

**Part One**

* * *

The back street into which he stepped was dark, lonely and … wet.

Bollocks!

No umbrella. Again.

He had missed the forecast, apparently. Not the first time. Unlikely to be the last. He didn't really even watch crap telly anymore. He turned up the short collar of his coat against the increasing cascade of rain, forcing back memories of another pair of hands – fingers elegant, slender, and refined – that turned up the woolen collar of another coat, not as a barrier against the wind and water but as a shield against the obtuse, the ignorant, the mundane.

It was late. So late that he could call it early. It had taken far longer than usual for him to finish up his paperwork that night. The 24-hour surgery where he volunteered his time and skills three nights a week typically saw a great deal of traffic, but the weeks-long wet and cold had brought with them an increase of lung infections and pneumonia to the population of Greater London; the surgery had been teeming with patients long before he had arrived. The Lead GP had also cornered him – again – all but begging him to accept the full-time, paid position that had opened up a fortnight ago. He thanked the woman for her high regard of his skill, but reminded her of all the reasons why he had turned her down the first four times: he travelled frequently and sometimes unexpectedly, he had an aged friend to care for when he was in town, he was involved with a number of charitable committees assisting military veterans, to say nothing of the small brood of nieces and nephews that he saw whenever he could.

All reasonable. All plausible.

All lies.

He doubted that Mrs. Hudson would think kindly on him by referring to her as "aged;" the odds of Harry finding a partner who would stay with her long enough to even consider having kids made that point moot; the sum total of his involvement with the war veterans' charities was the 350 quid he had donated last New Year; and he had not left London since returning from his "holiday" 18 months ago, three weeks after he had told Mrs. Hudson that he couldn't go back to the flat just yet.

Four weeks after his life had gone into … free fall.

He hadn't been about to explain to the young physician that the only reason he volunteered in the first place was that he was being blackmailed. That six months ago, Mycroft had threatened to stop paying rent to Mrs. Hudson – there were several loopholes in the will, apparently – unless he got "out of the bloody flat once in awhile!"

It was a form of coercion that would have been completely ineffective had he lived anywhere _other_ than 221B Baker Street; Mycroft knew it, so the prat had dragged Mrs. Hudson along for the "intervention." The moment he had heard her teary greeting from the doorway, he had started to submit; three minutes later when she was in his arms, crying into the wool of his jumper that she couldn't "bear to lose the both of you!" he had caved utterly. Arms full of weeping landlady, he had glared up at the knowing smile on the hawkish face.

"Smug bastard!" he mouthed. It hadn't been enough that Mycroft had betrayed his brother in the worst possible way, now he had resorted to emotional extortion to manipulate those left behind.

Though later, when he was alone again, staring blindly at the empty leather chair across from him as the ghosts of things left unsaid whispered in his ear, he grudgingly acknowledged to himself that Mrs. Hudson or no, he would have given in to Mycroft's scheme. He hated himself for that.

He _couldn't_ leave. It wasn't really home anymore, but something compelled him to stay.

Stretching his dodgy leg which ached even more of late thanks to the endless rain, he gripped the handle of his cane a bit more tightly in his gloved hand and started for the main road. Taxis would be hard to come by at this hour, and it was too late to catch The Tube to Marylebone Station. It was a long walk, but it didn't really matter to him. In many ways, he had become so numb to the world around him that the pain was sometimes the only thing that reminded him he was still a part of it.

It had started up again shortly after he had returned to London, increasing to the point where he could barely put weight on his leg by the end of the day. Psychosomatic, to be sure, but as he had once been told by a dear friend, psychosomatic pain was still _real_ pain. He had tried to shake it off as he had done before, but the motivation was gone. It was foolish, he knew, this fog he had been living in. However, each time he tried to clear it away, it was only a matter of time before he realised that his heart wasn't in it. That he was just "going through the motions" as the Americans liked to say.

Mrs. Hudson had produced the aluminium cane he had used when he first arrived at 221B, but he preferred the black walnut walking stick with the silver lion-head handle that had been presented to "the consulting detective" by the Bulgarian ambassador as a personal thank you for help clearing up an incident of a "most delicate matter." He appreciated its durability. Its strength. Its symbolism; representing as it did all the inspiration, confidence, and wisdom that had flowed out of his life as a pool of blood on the sidewalk outside of St. Bart's.

He hobbled perhaps 100 paces down the narrow street before a familiar black car pulled up to the curb and proceeded to move slowly along next to him. He heard the near silent hum of the motor, felt its heat radiating out toward him, but he continued on his path without so much as a glance behind.

The rear window rolled down. He could hear the clicking keys of her mobile even over the pattering of the rain.

"Dr. Watson, your presence has been requested."

He ignored her.

"Dr. Watson. You know how this works." More clicking.

He kept walking.

"Dr. Wat …"

"You can tell that bloody bastard whatever you want, but I'm NOT coming!" he shouted to the rain above. "I've done what he's demanded. I'm living a life! Such as it is. There should be no reason for him to call on me again."

The clicking stopped. The car door opened, and he heard the clip of her heels on the wet cobblestones behind him as he crossed the deserted street.

"John!"

That got his attention. He stopped and turned.

In the glare of the headlamps, Anthea stood beneath an umbrella. "It's Lestrade who's asked for you."

His laugh was bitter. "Bugger off!"

Undeterred by his uncharacteristic rudeness, she extended her hand across the great distance between them. "Please."

Well, that was a first.

Eyes narrowing with suspicion, he wiped at the rain on his face. "Greg phones. Mycroft sends _you_."

"Check your mobile."

Watson huffed a bit but reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulled out the device and turned it on. He rarely received calls anymore, and text messages were …

Well, he'd gotten in the habit of turning off the phone while at work. And at home.

Three missed calls since 9 o'clock.

Four missed texts. A fifth popped up as he looked at the screen.

_Get into the car, Doctor. I don't care if it's convenient or not, get your arse to The Yard. – GL_

Right.

He and Lestrade had drinks every now and again, but Watson hadn't been summoned to DI's office since he was questioned about what he had witnessed at St. Bart's.

Watson raised his eyes to Anthea's. She nodded, turned, and opened the car door for him. The only sound in the street was that of his cane on the cobbles and the rain. Leaning his head against the heated leather of the back seat as the sedan accelerated through the deserted streets of London, the words of a pair of similar texts he had received long ago flashed through his memory.

_Come at once if convenient._

_If inconvenient, come anyway._

Watson sighed. What he wouldn't give to have even five more minutes of that "inconvenience" back in his life.

* * *

The inner offices of The New Scotland Yard were nearly as deserted as the streets the car had taken to get him there. A quiet night for crime in London, apparently, Watson thought as he walked slowly through the sea of desks and partitions. An increasingly rare thing in an age where terrorist plots seemed to outnumber petty thefts. He was leaning heavily on his cane now, maneuvering carefully through the maze to Lestrade's office lest he catch an edge here or there and fall. The subdued lighting reflected the time of the night as did the low murmurs of conversation from the cubicles around him.

John suppressed a groan as he eased into the chair Detective Inspector Lestrade offered him. He was still soaked to the skin and his whole body ached. Forties are the new 20s he'd heard once. Clearly the idiot who'd said that hadn't been thorough in his research; John felt closer to 90, in mind and body.

"This had better be important," he said. "I've been up for …" blinking hard, he focused his eyes on his watch. Dear God, "… thirty-two hours, if you don't count the 40 minute lie down I had before surgery."

"It _is_ important," Lestrade promised. He perched on the desk corner closest to Watson. "We're just waiting on someone to arrive. Can I get you a cuppa to help take the chill off?"

"Lestrade, I don't want _tea_. I want to go to bed! I want my life to get back to –" John stopped himself short. The irritation that had been simmering since Anthea intercepted him was threatening to boil over completely. John took a deep breath and then another, collecting himself before speaking again "I'm sorry, Greg." I want the impossible. "Tea would be … lovely. Thank you."

"Look, John –"

"No, it's me. I'm sorry, my friend. I'm tired." Hooking the cane around the arm of the chair, Watson pressed his fingers against his closed eyes before looking back wearily at the DI. "I'm just so very tired, you see."

"Of course we see, John. That's why we've brought you here."

John rose slowly from the chair, his spine stiffening soldier straight at the sound of the nasally voice that replied. John had once asked if arch-enemies existed in real life. He had been assured that they did, and now here was his: tall, immaculate, and shameless as he oozed through side the door to Lestrade's office. Their dispute was not the result of a childish squabble, but rather one born of treachery and deceit. At least that's how Watson saw things.

"It's not what you think, Doctor," Lestrade protested when John flicked his angry eyes toward his 'friend.' "Mycroft's here for a reason. A good one."

"You know where I stand on this issue," John growled.

"So do you honestly think that I'd bring him in for some petty –"

"I don't know _what_ to think!" John shouted. He slammed his hands on the wooden top of Lestrade's desk. "Not anymore! Nothing makes sense anymore." He pointed accusingly at the elder Holmes. "Mycroft gave Moriarty everything he needed to ruin him. One lie wrapped in a shroud of truth. Giving him no choice but to jump. Sher –" The name he hadn't spoken aloud in over a year stuck in his throat. He swallowed hard and bit his lip, desperate for some measure of control, but it wasn't to be his. He was losing the battle with the anger and the fear he had kept in check for far too long. "Innocent people have died. Countless lives ruined by the choices _this man_ made, and you want me to think that there's a good reason for all of that?!"

"I told you it was a war, John," Mycroft said altogether too casually. "We may not like it, but wars have casualties. I love my brother very much, but he had to jump. Lives were –"

"Had to … " John couldn't believe what was coming from Mycroft's mouth. "Had to _jump_?!" He stumbled, grasping at the edge of the desk, desperate for something solid beneath him to counter the absolute incredulity that caused his mind to swim. "God save you, you cold-blooded bastard. Love?! You know n-n-nothing about it! People fight to protect the ones they love. They don't sell them out for a couple of lines of computer code. They don't … don't make a deal with the Devil and offer up a brother as collateral for when the Devil comes to collect!" John spun toward the windows, unable to stomach the sight of Mycroft any longer.

Oh, dear God! I accused him of being a machine!

He had to fall …

He had to fall …

Had to …

Fall …

No! Nonononononononono!

At first, the painful tickling at the edge of his consciousness was the only warning John had of the attack that was taking root, but it blossomed quickly. It had been years since the last one, but he recognized the signs as though it had been yesterday.

No. Not here. Please. Not now.

John's heart pounded painfully in his chest. He couldn't breathe. His skin went cold. He sunk to the floor beside Lestrade's desk, legs unable to support him – support this _weight_ – any longer.

Watson's mind reeled with flashes of that last conversation, and he gripped his head between his hands as each remembered phrase stabbed at his soul. The memories and the horror had him fully within their control now, and John would be forced to go along for the ride.

_We'll just have to do it like this._

_Have to do it like this._

_What's going on?_

_ What's going on?_

_An apology. It's all true. I'm a fake. _

_ An apology … an apology …_

_Shut up!_

_ Shut up!_

_Nobody could be that clever._

_ Nobody … that clever …_

_You could._

_ You. Could._

_I discovered everything I could to impress you. This phone call. It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? __Leave a note?_

_ Impress you … It's my note …_

_When?_

_ When?_

_Goodbye John._

_ Goodbye … Goodbye, John_

_No! SHERLOCK!_

_ Goodbye, John._

_No! No! No! No!_

_ SHERLOCK! _

_ Goodbye, John._

_ SHERLOCK!_

_ SHERLOCK!_

John's mind screamed the name over and over again.

"Jesus … no," he moaned. Pushing weakly at the hands of those that held him, he tried to reach the body of his friend. John gripped the pale wrist, its pulse fading beneath his probing fingers.

The dark, loose curls soaked through with blood. The animated hands, limp … still. Lips, ever twitching with the deduction at hand or the observation missed by the "average intelligence," slack and silent. Piercing gray eyes, now flat and sightless, turned toward the leaden heavens above.

Disjointed snippets of conversation floated around him, but the riot in his mind would not allow John to make sense of them.

Never seen one that bad before, poor sod. What do we do?

Wait it out, I'm afraid. With his history of PTSD, it's surprising that it hasn't happened before now.

How could you let him get to this point, Mycroft? His mind is tearing him apart.

You'd know more about that than I do. Under the circumstances, there was only so much that I –

Get out. GET OUT! _Now_!

"Sherlock!" The tortured whisper of his friend's name issued from John's lips again and again as he gripped his knees, tightening in on himself, desperate to avoid reliving that pain again.

It was many moments before John finally felt the comforting hand at the back of his neck. It quickly became two arms that wrapped securely around him. Their warmth gradually lured John from his tight ball of cramped limbs, and he was eased back against the body of the one who held him. His exhaustion at trying to keep the grief and dread at bay for all these long months had finally become more than John could control.

"God … no," he murmured, submitting to the never-ending tug of memories. But as they dragged him under, a soothing whisper followed him into the void, shielding him from the daggers of his own mind.

"It will be all right. I'm here, John," it said.

"I'm here."

* * *

Feedback is the food for all writers. I hope that you'll leave some for me.

Thank you.


	2. Chapter 2

Just a few notes about me as a writer. I prefer dashes over parentheses or excessive comma usage - I've always found polysyndeton mildly annoying - and I like to use stylistic fragments.

Thank you so much to those who have posted reviews. They really are the food of writers. Seeing as how we don't get paid for any of this fanfiction we write, the best form of compensation is knowing what people think when they read our writing. Praise is always welcome as is constructive criticism. :) I was unable to give this chapter as thorough a check as I would like, but hopefully there aren't too many mistakes.

One other thing. Though I would love to promise updates every day or every other day, I am a high school teacher with an outrageously heavy grading load that keeps me away from my writing more often than not. I will, however, do my best to update at least weekly as I try to cram in an hour of writing each night. It's rather relaxing. I've no clue if I'm any good at it, but it's fun to be creative in this manner.

I hope you enjoy Chapter Two.

Cheers!

* * *

**One More Miracle**

Chapter Two

Moment by moment John Watson came to himself again. His head hurt. It wasn't a headache. It just … hurt. As if his skull was too full. An overfull bicycle tire under too much pressure. It would feel that way for a few days, he knew, and it annoyed him. He opened his eyes and as he took in his surroundings, irritation turned to puzzlement. He had been in Lestrade's office when the attack started, yet now he was ensconced in his armchair in 221b Baker Street. A lightweight blanket covered him; his legs propped up on the hassock. His brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to organize the jumbled puzzle pieces of his memory. His mind was hazy and muted, as though someone had thrown a wet shock blanket over his consciousness.

He remembered arriving at the Yard as well as his argument with Greg and Mycroft, but after that … little made sense. Vague impressions were all that he was left with: strong arms surrounding him, lifting him from out of his terror; a nebulous flash of a cab ride, and that same, solid presence close to his side, anchoring him to what little reality he could handle; a deep voice and a sturdy hand, urging him up the stairs.

He had no idea how long he had been insensible, but beyond the window, London was still cloaked in inky darkness – dawn had not yet come – so no more than two hours, he judged. Unless night had fallen again, and he'd missed an entire day. Not unheard of, unfortunately.

Dropping his feet to the floor, Watson attempted to stand, but dropped back into the deep cushions with a pained groan. Every inch of him ached from the stress his tension had clearly exerted on his muscles. Even his jaw hurt. Right. He'd just sit here awhile longer then.

He stared at the embers that glowed softly in the fireplace that generated the only light in the flat. Mrs. Hudson's handiwork. No, that didn't seem right. He growled with frustration. He always struggled with his short-term memory after these things. After a moment, he had it. Mrs. Hudson had gone on holiday three days ago. Lestrade, then. Greg would have thought to light the fire. John would ring him up later to thank him … and to apologize.

The problem with PTSD flashbacks – other than the intense terror of reliving the event, and the hypersensitive emotions that lingered afterward, and, of course, the migraine headache that typically followed, forcing him into hiding in a darkened room for two days – was the embarrassment of the whole thing. The nightmares he could deal with … after a fashion. He still suffered them from his time in Afghanistan, but since The Fall, his night terrors were as filled with the sight of blood-soaked curls as often as they were with bombs and bullets.

Flashbacks were another thing altogether – a waking nightmare so real, so tangible that it was impossible to determine the line between the present and the past.

He felt his blood pressure start to rise again. John sucked in a deep breath and then another, consciously working to relax his shoulders, push those memories away and ease the tension he had generated in himself.

The physician in him understood that there was no need to be ashamed of any of this. Psychological and emotional trauma was unpredictable and far more challenging to treat than physical wounds, but they were wounds nonetheless. The soldier in him – the man – still struggled with how he was stripped of his control and his pride, emotions laid bare for all to see.

And where his feelings for Sherlock Holmes were concerned, there were plenty of emotions to lay bare.

Grasping his cane, John pushed up out of the chair and limped to the window. It was still raining, but he drew back the curtains and opened the sash anyway. The chill that blew past the panes refreshed him, sharpening his mind. With each breath he was able to drive back just a little bit more of the pain.

Years ago, before the war, before medical school even, John had attended the cinema with a young woman he had been dating at the time. He hated "chick flicks" as much as the next chap, but if going got her into his bed at the end of the night, he was perfectly fine with that. In all honesty, it hadn't been that bad – the film, not the shagging. He had read all of C.S. Lewis' books as a child, and while it might not have been a wholly accurate biography of the man's life, it was at least entertaining – far more than his lonely bed had been that night. While he didn't remember all of the details of the film, one of the final lines had always stuck with him for some reason.

Lewis married late in his life, and though originally a matter of convenience, the union eventually blossomed into love. His wife, Joy, however, died of cancer only a few years after their marriage, and Lewis was left bereft. Yet, as the years distanced him from the tragedy, Lewis was able to reflect on what their time together had given him rather than what her death had left him without.

"_The pain now is part of the happiness then," _Anthony Hopkins as Lewis had said._ "That's the deal."_

John Watson hadn't fully grasped that line's meaning in his younger years – at 21 he simply hadn't had the benefit of the wisdom that comes with life experiences – but _God_ did he get it now.

Some days he wished he had never run into Stamford in the park. Never set foot in 221b Baker Street. Never followed that posh bastard to the Pink Lady's corpse. After Afghanistan, his loneliness had left him feeling numb and disoriented, but now – after Sherlock, after _everything_ that was Sherlock – John felt raw and exposed.

John had done more, seen more, _lived_ more in his short time as Sherlock Holmes' friend than he had in any of his previous 40 years, but it wasn't just the lack of adventure and danger that he missed because – bollocks! – having a vest laden with Semtex strapped to his chest with a trigger happy maniac whispering in his ear was something he _didn't_ care to repeat, thank you very much. He wasn't that daft!

He missed being woken up half gone two in the morning by the strains of a violin being played so masterfully that John wept at its beauty. He missed the days long silences followed by even more days of manic, yet brilliant, chatter. If given the chance again, he'd rush halfway across England to pull a pen out of that frustrating nutter's pocket. Human heads in the fridge? Bloated rodents in the microwave? No. No, he couldn't say he missed those.

Quicksilver eyes that, even when closed, were always observing. The absolute joy that radiated from him when posed with a truly unique challenge. The genuine smile and infectious laugh that John knew with certainty was rarely shared with anyone but him. His mind. That beautiful, amazing, frustrating, maddening, brilliant, insensitive, gorgeous mind. The deep, posh baritone that draped like midnight over every word he spoke.

The pain now is part of the happiness then.

Right. Well, I must have been bloody _ecstatic_, then, if this is my punishment.

John rubbed his face and leaned heavily against the sill. John had told Greg that he was tired, but it was more than that. He felt hollow. He ached for what was gone, for what they had, and for what they _might_ have had.

He had started to re-evaluate his feelings about Sherlock shortly before Moriarty did his song and dance number with the Crown Jewels. It was part of the reason he had been so concerned about how the "red tops" were portraying Sherlock in the daily press. From the first, he had been protective of Sherlock – Hell, he'd killed a man to save his life barely 48 hours after meeting the man – but somewhere along the way John had felt the need to protect not just his friend's body but his feelings as well. Sherlock would have denounced such behavior as dull sentiment and pointed out for the umpteenth time that he was beyond such petty concerns. John knew differently, however. Sherlock may not have been as overtly sentimental or demonstrative as the average stoic, but he felt things – deeply.

If his actions that night at the pool weren't telling, then certainly his last phone call with John was. The tremor in his voice. His insistence that John keep his eyes fixed on him. His outstretched hand, desperate for one last moment of human contact.

_Goodbye, John._

Eighteen months of introspection and more than one bottle of whiskey had led John to only one conclusion: he had been in love with Sherlock Holmes. He still was.

_I'm not his date! People will most definitely talk. I'm not gay!_

Though he thought with the mind of a scientist and a soldier, John had seen far too many things in his life not to believe in reincarnation; he could only imagine what Sherlock would have had to say about _that_, but it was a subject that had fascinated him from the time he was a boy. Bodies died, but souls were reborn, and every soul had its companion. Sometimes those companions found each other from lifetime to lifetime. Sometimes they didn't. John had found his soul's companion, but because he was a true heterosexual male – he really did _love_ women – he had taken too long, manufactured too many denials to listen to what his soul had been trying to tell him from the moment he and Sherlock met.

He _hated_ the term soul mate. It was too trite, too cliché, too _inadequate_ to really express the complexity of it all. It had taken too long for John to see that in this instance, gender was, as Sherlock would say, "immaterial."

Sherlock had been his kindred – his bond mate – and John had failed to recognize it until it was too late. Moriarty had done far more than burn the heart out of John, he had burned his _soul_ out, too.

A single strangled moan echoed softly through the empty flat, but John did not give in to his anguish. Rain and wind chilled his fingers where they continued to grip the sill, and he pressed his forehead to the icy pane of glass. He couldn't keep doing this to himself. He couldn't keep living a half-life, barely aware of the world around him. Contrary to what some of his friends might think, he wasn't suicidal, but unless he found a way out the circle of hell his guilt and grief had consigned him to, he might well become so. He needed to live again.

He just didn't know how.

_Say them, John_. The voice in his head was _not_ his therapist. Its timbre was too deep, too like midnight. _Say the things that were left unsaid. It's the only logical option, so why do you insist on fighting it?_

_I don't know if I can._

_Is there really a choice? You don't really want to go on as you have done, do you?_

_No. _

_I'm pleased that you finally recognize that._

_Prat! _

John pressed the corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and took a deep breath. It was one thing to have all of this rolling around inside his head, but something else again to say it out loud – even if he was alone. He straightened to his full height and stood at the closest thing to attention he could manage with his dodgy leg. He wasn't going into battle, but there was something soothing about falling into old habits.

Right. Well, then …

He cleared his throat.

"If you were here right now, you'd call me an idiot, and you'd be right. I couldn't … no, _wouldn't_ admit to myself what I knew was true. Y—you might not have felt the same – _bugger_, this is hard – but I don't think that would have ... mattered to me. At least you would know. At least there might have been the chance that you cared – no, _say_ it, you prat – that you _loved_ me, too. I asked you once for one more miracle, but you had already given it to me. You, Sherlock. You gave me _you_. You let me into your life, and I am so _grateful_ for that. You were my mirror. You showed me all that I had the potential to become, and guided me down that path. You changed my life. You made me ... happy. '_Us'_ made me happy, and I regret never telling you that. You were – are – a good man, the _best_ of men, and I m–miss you so much."

One breath. Two. John did not wipe away the tears this time.

It wasn't over; he wasn't healed, but he felt marginally better. The weight was still there, but it no longer felt as though he would be crushed by it. Maybe facing tomorrow wouldn't be so bloody awful.

Maybe.

Leaden gray clouds, heavy with rain still blanketed London, but dawn was coming on as John closed and latched the window. It didn't matter. He needed sleep. He'd put on some noise-cancelling headphones to block out the noise of the street, and with no Mrs. Hudson about, he really doubted he'd be disturbed, but he'd lock the flat anyway. The last thing he needed was to wake to find Mycroft lurking above him. He wondered if Lestrade would arrest him for the murder of a minor government official trespassing on private property. A small chuckle popped into his mind at the notion.

Bed. Now. Grasping his cane, John turned toward the door … and felt his heart stop beating in his chest at the sight of the man filling the doorway.

"If I am a good man, John, it's because _you_ made me one."

Sherlock.

"And for the record, you're _not_ an idiot. At least not in this situation."

* * *

Please feed the author. She loves the taste of reviews!

Thank you!

~ Sarah


	3. Chapter 3

My thanks to those of you who have reviewed and marked this story as a favorite. It really is amazing the warm glow that comes along with knowing that people appreciate your work, so if you like what you're reading, and haven't posted a review yet, please do.

I think that there may be two or three chapters remaining in this story, but we'll see where things go.

I hope that you enjoy this installment.

* * *

**One More Miracle**

Chapter Three

An almost imperceptible buckling of the knees and an inaudible hitching of the breath were the only outward signs that betrayed John Watson's shock. Most people would have missed the tells, but, as had long since been established, Sherlock Holmes was not most people.

"At some point, John, I'd rather think you might consider breathing again."

John's head jerked backward as Sherlock's voice snapped him back into awareness. His brow furrowed and he pursed his lips, searching for the words that would not come together in his mind.

"Wha … " he swallowed hard to push his voice back into its normal range. "You're not … What are you ... _why_ are you …"

"I should think that would be obvious, John. Who do you think brought you back from the Yard? Certainly not Mycroft. My bother has the bedside manner of a trout, as I'm sure you're aware, and Lestrade's not much better. He acted as though he'd never seen a PTSD flashback before. And unless you've taken up residence in my room – which you've not – or Mrs. Hudson has taken my name off of the lease – which she hasn't – then I _do_ still live here."

"Stop!" shouted Watson, confusion ringing clearly in his voice. "Just … just stop … just stop being _you_ for one minute, please."

Now it was Sherlock's brow that furrowed. "Stop being me?"

"I need a minute to … catch up," John pleaded. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and across his face.

"Ah. Completely understandable under the circumstances, I think." Sherlock leaned his tall body against the doorframe and crossed his legs at the ankle. "By all means. Take whatever time you need."

Watson sat down slowly on the windowsill behind him, never feeling the lingering raindrops that seeped through the seat of his trousers. He was a soldier, damn it! He wouldn't embarrass himself by collapsing in front of Sherlock or by voicing the words that were screaming inside his head.

Not dead! Not Dead! NOTDEADNOTDEADNOTDEAD!

Sherlock seemed to hear them anyway.

"No, John. I'm not dead. I was in Lestrade's office, and I'm here now," the detective said, his voice soft and oddly sympathetic.

"Quiet!" Watson snapped. "Thinking!" he pointed at his head.

It was a command Sherlock understood and respected, so he stayed silent and observed as Watson sorted out the evidence. From this distance, John looked nearly the same as he did all those months ago on the street in front of St. Bart's. Holmes knew from closer inspection in the cab, however, that such was not the case. The wrinkles at his mouth and forehead had deepened; the healthy glow of his skin had turned to ash; dark circles under his eyes had far too permanent a look about them, and the eyes themselves a flat blue that showed little of the sparkle Sherlock remembered. Sandy blond hair was shot through with more silver than gold, and the left hand trembled with a ferocity that echoed the man's inner turmoil.

As much as Sherlock wanted to blame Moriarty for all that John had suffered these long months, he couldn't. Atonement must not begin with a lie. _Moriarty's scheming set events in motion, but I made my own choices. _I_ did this to John. _

It had been a long and arduous task, but Sherlock had finally vanquished the last of the threats to his friends. Now he was asking for forgiveness: Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and now John. If the reaction of the others to his resurrection indicated a trend – which he suspected it did – seeking absolution from John was going to be the hardest task of all. It was a strange concept for him, to be sure, but the thought of not doing so was even more discomfiting, and he wasn't sure why. It was a vicious cycle.

"Molly," John said after several long moments. "That would explain the closed casket and why she wouldn't let me identify your body. 'Remember him as he was,' Molly said. Should've known better, seen through it, but I was too out of it to fight her," he admitted.

"Bicycle hit and run," Sherlock asserted. "I heard that you suffered a rather serious concussion when you fell, so it's understandable."

"It wasn't just the concussion."

Blue eyes met gray across the distance of the dimly lit room. "Mycroft identified your ... _the_ body, so he was in it from the beginning." Sherlock nodded, and Watson felt both more anger and a sudden compassion for the elder Holmes brother. Though the man dealt in secrets every day, it couldn't have been easy for him to keep _this_ one. "Who's in the casket? Homeless man?"

"Otherwise destined for a pauper's grave, yes." A corner of Sherlock's mouth lifted at his friend's deduction. The man really was getting – marginally – better at this.

"Who else knew?" John asked his voice low. "Lestrade?

"Not until a fortnight ago."

John rose and crossed the room until he was mere inches from Holmes. He glanced out the door to the staircase. "Mrs. Hudson's not just on holiday, is she?"

"No."

"Is she okay?"

"Of course!" Sherlock was offended by John's sudden accusatory tone.

"Just couldn't have her spoiling your grand entrance for me, though, could you?" Watson's voice had grown tight with anger. Sherlock's eyes widened, and he took a small step backward. He wasn't overly intimidated by the smaller man, but he had heard this tone in John's voice before, and it definitely fell into the category of 'Not a Bit Good.' Increased distance was simply a prudent action.

Unfortunately, the good doctor's haggard countenance belied his resolve and his speed, and it was but the matter of moments that Sherlock found his first his jaw and then the back of his head exploding in pain. The first from John's fist; the second courtesy of the floor. Flat on his back, Sherlock tried to focus on the cracks in the plaster ceiling, but the stars that danced across his field of vision made it impossible. His nose and lip were bleeding and something had broken loose inside his mouth. He spit it out.

"You broke my favorite molar!" Sherlock accused, pointing at the small pool of blood and tooth on the floor next to him.

"Only _you_ would have a favorite molar," John growled, shaking out his right hand. "Bloody hell! I didn't think it was possible for your head to get any harder."

Sherlock tried to get back up, but the best he could manage was to roll over on his side and prop himself up against the side of the couch. He glared up at the doctor. "You hit me."

"Oh! Brilliant deduction, Sherlock!" Surprisingly, hurt cut through Sherlock at John's bitter comment. Watson saw it in his face, and a great deal of his anger melted. "Here," he tossed Sherlock a handkerchief from his pocket. "You're bleeding all over the rug."

Sherlock pressed the pristine cloth – for John was nothing if not meticulous in his laundry habits – to his nose. "I'll get you some ice for that." Sherlock grasped his ankle before he could turn.

"We need to talk."

John regarded Sherlock for a long minute. Stay or go? Listen or ignore? Finally, he slumped down on the low table in front of the sofa and faced his friend. He had no more energy. He just couldn't keep up with the events that had his emotions spinning 180 degrees every few hours. "There's nothing to say, Sherlock."

"There is," the younger man insisted, sitting up a bit straighter. His grip switched to John's knee. His long fingers were strong yet tense, betraying that his own emotions were running more than a little high. "I have to explain –"

"You sacrificed yourself to protect me," John interrupted. "Oh, don't look so surprised, Sherlock. I may not be able to deduce things as quickly as you do, but I've had _a lot_ of time to think about how … about how you died."

"Tell me."

"Why? You're here. You're alive."

"Call it … a teacher's curiosity to see how far his student has progressed in the interim."

There was a time when Watson would have bristled at the metaphor, but it really was the least of his concerns right now.

"Right. Very well." John took a deep breath and laid out the trail of his deduction before the master of the craft. "That night at the pool, Moriarty threatened to burn the heart out of you. A very passionate threat, but a metaphorical one. If he had wanted you to die, he would have killed you the moment he was done toying with you, so he clearly didn't mean your physical heart. He wanted you to suffer. My attempt to force his hand by jumping him from behind turned his attention toward me. If I was willing to have myself blown up to save your life, what then might _you_ be willing to do for me?"

"Go on," Sherlock urged. There were a few gaps, but the path held true.

"It stood to reason that Moriarty kept us under constant surveillance after that encounter. Irene Adler confirmed as much to you and Mycroft, or so you told me. Given that, it's reasonable to assume that Moriarty picked up on – " he stopped.

"Picked up on what?"

_Bollocks, man, he already heard you confess the whole thing. It's not going to get any more awkward than it already is._ "M-Moriarty likely picked up on my feelings for you," John said in a rush, trying not to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Hell, people from London to Dartmoor and back were able to see it, so why not _that_ nutter? Anyway, after you recovered the Richenbach and started attracting the attention of the Daily Press, I warned you to keep a low profile, and then when the press started to turn, you told me that you didn't care what others thought about you and couldn't understand why it bothered me. Ergo – "

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Enough! I'm an educated man with a medical degree. I am capable of using advanced vocabulary, thank you very much."

"Pray continue, Dr. Watson."

"Prat," John muttered under his breath and kicked Sherlock in the leg, pleased at the lanky bastard's groan of pain. "_Ergo, _Sherlock Holmes would not commit suicide because he found himself in disgrace. No matter how Moriarty managed to spin the situation, you _never_ would have done that. There had to be another reason … or _three_ of them."

Sherlock frowned and nodded his head.

"Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and John Watson, the only three people for whom Sherlock Holmes has shown any outward concern. The only ones he might dare call 'friend.' Moriarty threatened to kill us if you didn't kill yourself. But he died before you did – Molly's timeline indicated it wasn't by much – yet you still jumped. Therefore, the threat must have extended beyond Moriarty's direct control. A figurative 'dead-man's switch'. The assassins who moved onto Baker Street, perhaps."

"They and a handful of others kept in reserve," Sherlock confirmed. "With Moriarty dead, there was no way to call them off unless I …"

"Unless you jumped. You died … Except, you weren't really dead."

"John, there wasn't a choice. I'm sorr –"

"_Don't_ say it! Don't you bloody well say that you're sorry, Sherlock!" John's anger returned in full force. "Was I that much of a burden on you? Did I hold you back so _much_ that you couldn't trust me to help you find a way out of it?"

"Of course not, John. Why would you think that I'd – "

"Because you left me behind." John jumped up from the table and stalked around the room, the thump of his cane punctuating his words. "You sent me off on a fool's errand while you went to face your death alone! The genius and the maniac in a final duel to the death. Who will survive?! Anyone? No one?! Who blows his head off? Who jumps to his death? All _very_ dramatic, Sherlock!"

Watson loomed over him, every muscle vibrating with tension and anger and grief, and Sherlock realized that the effect of his 'death' on John had clearly been far worse than Mycroft had ever led him to believe.

"I thought that if I faced Moriarty alone –"

"No! You _didn't_ think. For once you just didn't _think_. You reacted, Sherlock. You thought you had all the pieces of the puzzle, but you can't out reason a man for whom reason doesn't exist." John's voice had grown pleading, anguished in his attempt to make Sherlock understand.

"I took what action I deemed necessary to protect you and the others, and I've spent the last year and a half ensuring that Moriarty's network will never be a threat again. It didn't matter what happened to me."

Though his leg protested the action, John knelt down next to his friend and grabbed his hand.

"_This_ is what matters, Sherlock, not just The Work." John shook their joined hands between them, squeezing even harder to indicate the weight of his words. "_We_ matter. You and I, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and, yes, even Mycroft. A sociopath – even a high-functioning one – would _never_ do what you did for us. Too much sentiment. No matter what you may think, no matter how you've tried to convince yourself otherwise, you're _not_ made of ice. I've seen it in your actions, and I heard it in your voice that day."

Sherlock paused to absorb John's words – both these and the ones he uttered when he thought he was alone. The detective was still conflicted about those declarations, but of one thing he was certain. "I couldn't permit you become the victim of Moriarty's obsession with me," Sherlock leaned forward, closing the distance between them, his voice quiet yet urgent. "Not again."

It was the most natural thing in the world for John to lean his forehead against that of his friend, and when Sherlock did not pull away, he cupped the back of Sherlock's head with his free hand and, for a moment simply, let himself be comforted by the warmth, by the _life_, he held in his hands.

"If there is nothing else, you are my friend, and I am your partner. It's _both_ of us, or it's nothing," he whispered with a finality that shot straight to Sherlock's heart. He had never quite heard that insistent passion in John's voice before. "I know it's going to take time to convince you of the fact you're stronger with me helping you than keeping me out. Two minds working together – even one as horribly _ordinary_ as mine – will find a solution." He sighed. "But know that I _can't_ go through that again."

John's hand slid to Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed before he got to his feet again and headed to the stairs that led to his room. "I'm tired. I'm going to sleep. Maybe for the rest of the month." He looked over his shoulder at Sherlock who still sat on the floor. "Don't even _think_ of leaving this flat until I wake up. We're not done with this yet."

"Welcome home, my friend," Sherlock heard John say as he disappeared down the hall.

The morning light, diffused by the curtains at the windows, illuminated the room, and the shadows that had filled the flat through the long night fled from the sun's gaze. Sherlock sat where he was long after he heard the bedroom door close and the creaking of the floor above fall silent, all the while evaluating the myriad ways in which he and John weren't "done with this yet."

His ultimate deduction? It was … good. Quite a bit good, actually.

* * *

Did this work for you? If so, let me know. :)

Tah for now!

~ Sarah


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